


still waters

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [7]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional self-harm, Gen, Recovery, also spoilers for shadow in the ice, alternate title: commander gets read for filth by his friends, commander forced to realize he has a found family, healing but slow and not quite fully yet, hinting at but inexplicit addiction-like behaviour, maladaptive coping mechanisms, spoilers for visions of the past: steel and fire, yep it's exactly what it looks like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: “Can I do anything with this?” Roza asks, and holds out Caladbolg Iridi.There is beauty in broken glass. In the jagged pieces of something that was once delicate but whole.
Series: roza [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	still waters

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for all of season 5 so far, so up to and including visions of the past! i've somewhat combined that timeline with the end of the previous episode as well, for cohesiveness

There is a lot that hurts right now.

Almorra is the one that pulses the most, deep and cutting, raw enough still that Roza knows he hasn’t processed it yet. Blish—that one’s still there, drenched in guilt. Aurene, forced to fight since birth, just like him; a fate he had tried so desperately to save her from. Taimi. Roza doesn’t know what he’ll do when she—he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Then there are the other ones. Braham, surprisingly, is a grudge he finds he doesn’t hold anymore. He thinks he just grew tired of keeping it, one day, desperate enough for any armistice, no matter how reluctantly given, that even his mountainous pride had caved in at last. Braham is even… helping, now. He is… he is true fortitude, where Roza is crumbling.

Rytlock.

Roza almost snorts.

“You foolish, selfish, immature cub,” he murmurs, pressing his hand to the strange wall of the Hall of Monuments. It’s unnaturally warm beneath his fingertips, Aurene’s influence or some other pervasive magic making the stone feel more like glass to his touch. This whole area feels as if it was built to be a place of healing and peace. Roza doesn’t know what he’s doing in it.

Rytlock is not the one who had shot him. He isn’t responsible for the new, painful hole in Roza’s abdomen, the wound severe enough that he has to steady himself against the glassy wall to walk. Maybe Rytlock had told himself that when he’d carried him here. Maybe it had even helped.

But there are other marks, too, cauterized slashes across Roza’s chest from a flaming sword. The burn of Sohothin is far too similar to another fiery blade, one that hadn’t been so merciful. He would be lying if he said that, for a fleeting moment in that icy chamber, the fatal memory of it hadn’t flashed before his eyes.

Rytlock is staying away. Roza thinks he feels guilty. Right now, he can't bring himself to care.

“Champion.” Aurene’s voice is uncertain. She doesn’t know how to handle him, the poor thing, all the strength of an Elder Dragon falling away to a simple lack of experience with the kind of mental scars people like Roza have. He sometimes wishes he could sever her bond with him, if only to spare her from whatever bullshit inner turmoil he has going on at any given point of time. There’s always something. He hasn’t been clean on the inside for a long, long time.

(He wonders if…)

“You can just call me by my name, Aurene,” he says quietly. He misjudges an iridescent step and nearly trips, and she extends an arm to him, her concern quivering through his mind immediately. She is caught here taking care of him, tied to him by a love he hasn’t earned. And if he could free her?

“But Champion is your title.” There is a small tinkle of unseen crystal as she shifts her head, not understanding. “You’ve more than earned it. Credit should be given where it is due.”

“It’s not about that.” Roza accepts her aid, if only to stave off her worry. He shakes his head. “It’s about… familiarity. Caithe and I don’t call you ‘Elder Dragon,’ do we?”

She seems to consider this. Roza tries not to lean all his weight on her claw, because it turns out that walking is a lot more difficult than he remembers. He hopes he’ll recover before many other people see him like this.

“Na Rós,” Aurene says finally, as if trying the name out. “Does that… work?”

“How did you even…?” Roza sighs, mostly to himself. “I prefer just ‘Roza.’ Only Mother calls me that anymore.”

(A name of another time. Could he… ?)

There is a hesitant pause before Aurene answers. “Caithe told me,” she says, and if a dragon could seem cautious, Roza would read it in the crystalline shifting of her form.

So he only replies, “Oh,” and nothing more. Uneasy threads of jealousy and resentment threaten to poke at him, but he brushes them aside. For Aurene’s sake, if not for his own peace of mind.

(Caithe and he used to be friends. Almost.)

“It’s through here.” The dragon pulls her claw away from him, letting him enter the narrow passageway they’ve reached. “I tried to clear the rubble as best I could, but if you need help, I can try to open it further.”

“I’ve got it.” The stone here is bricked, although some pieces are missing, and he uses the gaps to steady himself as he makes his way through. Aurene doesn’t enter behind him, far too large to fit, but he can feel her at the forefront of his mind, pulsing with something almost like eagerness. It makes the corner of his mouth lift in a tiny smile.

Then the room beyond finally comes into view, and his own shock nearly whites her presence out. The area is awash in shades of rose and violet, from the delicate blossoms decorating the mossy edges of the ground, to the facets in the wall, glimmering a different colour at every angle, to the strange pink petals floating through to air, their source unseeable. It is awe-inspiring and beautiful in a way he has only ever come to associate with Aurene, but it is also different. Sharp and fragile, but not like the shattered shards of Glint’s lair. Flowering, but nothing like the stifling beauty of the Grove. It’s something entirely new.

“Aurene,” he whispers, still taking it all in. “This… this is…”

 _“You_.” Her voice sounds through his mind. _“It’s… how I see you. I tried to make a place for you, like you once did for me. I hope it is to your liking._ ”

Unexpectedly, his vision mists. He blinks through it to say, hoarsely, “It is. It’s beautiful.”

“ _I’m glad you like it,”_ she rumbles, pleased. _“I enlisted the help of a group of sylvari gardeners who recently joined the Crystal Bloom. They said that feeling how much pain you were in spurred them to work faster.”_

Roza chokes out a laugh. “Should I be apologizing to them?” He starts to slowly limp around the circumference of the room, watching as the crystal hues in the walls wink and shift. He can smell lavender, too, he realizes as he spots a bundle of it in an earthy corner. This… is this truly how Aurene thinks of him? But he doesn’t… he isn’t… He isn’t all of this. He can’t be.

“ _They were honoured to serve their Champion_.” Her voice lowers at first, then lilts to something lighter. _“And I think one of them said that you were ‘too pretty to die.’”_

“I am,” Roza mutters. Aurene laughs.

“Aurene, I don’t deserve this.” He slowly sits on the ground, leaning against the wall for support. He slips his hands through the moss dotted at his feet, clenching it between his fingers. “You’ve done far too much for me already.”

 _“That’s too bad, because this is your room now._ ” The smugness in her tone is entirely too familiar. “ _We’ll have a hammock in it soon. And Gorrik is thinking of a way I can help him replicate sunlight, so you can photosynthesize without going outside. It should help in the healing process_.”

Roza closes his eyes. “Thank you,” he says finally, too emotionally and physically spent to do anything but concede defeat.

Aurene hums. _“I would do everything for you and more, Roza. You must know this by now._ ”

He does. He doesn’t tell her that that’s exactly what he’s worried about.

~*~

(Once, he could have been someone worthy of her. Once.)

~*~

Roza is studying himself in a long, particularly reflective facet in the wall he has come to think of as a mirror. Silvery tendrils have already grown to cover his arrow wound, although they are near translucent in the middle, and when he pokes at it hard enough, sap oozes out. He hisses softly, pulling away. It is remarkable how such a small injury can cause so much pain.

“Canach is going to give me hell,” he muses out loud, and then laughs. He can already hear it: _You were standing_ how _close to him? I see. And what have we learned about letting our guard down too early?_

“That I shouldn’t trust Rytlock’s judgment on who is and isn’t dangerous,” Roza mutters, and yanks on his new bandage to tighten it. He almost welcomes the ensuing pain his roughness causes.

 _Idiot_. Maybe Jormag was right. _Trusting fool_. He should have known something was going to happen to his—to Rytlock. He should have been stronger. He shouldn’t be feeling like this, like if he falls—fails—falls one more time he’s going to shatter into a million unmendable pieces.

Maybe Roza is the one who’s untrustworthy.

(Once, they trusted him without question.)

He is hobbling into the main sanctuary with the aid of a staff one of the acolytes has crafted for him when he begins to make out raised voices. Familiar raised voices. Frowning, he moves faster, ignoring the throb in his stomach and the worried call of the mender currently posted outside his room.

“… be fine.” Rytlock, gruff and— _lying_ —hard to read.

“‘He’ll be fine?’” Canach’s voice—when did he get here?—sharp in a way Roza has never heard before. “You nearly got him _killed!_ If Braham hadn’t—”

Roza turns the corner. “Stop,” he says.

He doesn’t shout, but he doesn’t need to. They turn to him—Braham is there as well, his face pinched—and he stares them down coolly.

“No infighting,” he tells them, and though his voice is soft they know it is an order. He is still their leader, after all. He is their commander, and they should _follow_ him (somehow, in some way. He feels as if they're all slipping away from him, as if his grasp is as tenuous as silk but without the allure). “It won’t do any good, and we can’t afford that kind of liability.”

Hypocrite. Braham says, makes as if he’s going to reach out, “Commander…”

Roza’s eyes flit up. “And I’m so fucking tired of dealing with it,” he murmurs.

Braham stops. Slowly, his hand falls back down to his side.

Roza thinks he notices Canach incline his head, but when he looks at him, he is still. “Aurene says you’re expected to make a full recovery,” he says.

“Although maybe you should stay in here for a little while.” Braham’s face is the picture of uncomfortable concern. “I think you… You look like you could really use the rest.”

“Thanks,” Roza mutters.

“I mean it, Commander.” His expression doesn’t change, and this is too much. Too much. Rytlock is just staring at him, silent, and what is he thinking? What does he want to say? Maybe he wants to leave, Roza thinks, and the thought grips him with a fear he didn’t know he had. He’d known there had been something in Rytlock’s voice these past few weeks, some undertone he had chosen to overlook. He’s too trusting. He trusts too much, and why? What has it gotten him besides an arrow burning a hole through him and the sharp sting of betrayal?

“Commander. Commander!” Someone is shaking him, panic in their voice. Roza shoves them away instinctively, doubling over when the movement lances pain through his abdomen. He grips his staff with both hands, trembling.

“My name is _Roza,_ ” he snaps to whoever it is, except it is Braham again, tall and strong and with an expression Roza is quickly coming to hate. Also still right in front of him, although he takes an acquiescing step back, as if to pretend that Roza still has enough strength to push him away.

“Alright. Roza,” Braham says almost indulgently, and Roza changes his mind, he hates this more.

He glares at them. Glares at them all, just so they can see that his gaze can still be withering. Just so they can see that…

His wound throbs. He is holding his staff too tightly, and he is putting too much strain on his body. He should… He can stand. But he should…

“You should rest.” Canach breaks through his thoughts. Roza almost scowls at him; what is _that_ tone of voice? Where is the snark? He should be making jokes—Roza even has some for him.

He opens his mouth to offer one up—or possibly to reprimand him, even though he knows he has no reason to—but what comes out is, “I think I’m going to.”

As he hobbles back to his room, he can only think of one thing: how much he has lost sight of the people he… the people he runs with. After everything, does he truly know them at all?

~*~

Braham shifts uncomfortably. “I told you,” he says in a worried rumble. “He’s… in a bad way.”

Canach is staring after Roza’s slow, staggering form. When he speaks, his voice is absent. “So it would seem.”

Rytlock says nothing.

~*~

Roza has a cloak.

It is cold up here, high in the Shiverpeaks as they are. The tower is called Eye of the North for a reason. Aside from the norn, who are either masochistic or don’t feel the effects of the weather like regular-sized people, most of the acolytes here are suitably bundled up.

That is not why he has a cloak.

He had tried this before, and had gotten as far as “Where are you going with a weapon, Commander? Not outside, I hope,” before being, in his opinion, harassed into compliance. But now, underneath his cloak, his fingers are gripping hidden green bark, warm to the touch.

Peace within his soul, and all that. He is allowed to do this.

(He just wants to see.)

“Roza.” Aurene sounds concerned. Roza hasn’t even said anything yet—does his very presence inspire worry now?

“The Scrying Pool.” He sits at its edge, not quite in the water. “I want to use it.”

“It is yours to use.” But Aurene’s front legs nudge against each other, and he can tell she is uneasy. He shuffles forward to kneel, pushing back his cloak.

(He just needs to remember.)

“Can I do anything with this?” he asks, and holds out Caladbolg Iridi.

There is a long pause. In truth, that in and of itself tells Roza all he needs to know. Still, he waits out her reluctance as it washes over him, slipping his hand idly into the still waters at his knees.

“Caladbolg has… a strong connection to you,” Aurene says at last. “You can use it to witness any number of memories, I might imagine.”

He only wants it for a handful of specific ones. For a second he feels as if she is trying to steer him away from what he desires, and he feels—self-righteousness—no— _anger_ —

No. Not at Aurene. Never at Aurene.

For a moment, the him of the present, the one that is grown and wiser and oh so weary, rises up over the him of the now, and it is enough to swallow the feeling down. For a moment, he almost feels as if he shouldn’t be doing this.

But he had heard a voice in the wind, even if it had been a lie. And Jormag isn’t a threat in here.

“Take me to Trahearne,” he whispers over himself, and submerges the weapon underneath the water.

~*~

“Okay, it’s been five minutes.” Braham, who has been shifting his weight from foot to foot in a frankly quite irritating display of anxiety, crosses his arms. “Can you do it now?”

Canach sighs. “This is cheating, you know,” he informs them. He ignores the flare of Rytlock’s nostrils. “You can’t just ask me this every time he’s in one of his moods.”

“Canach,” Braham groans. “Just do it.”

Not yet. “Truly, I’m a disgrace to my fellow sylvari,” he continues, grandstanding. “This could be considered an immoral breach of trust. Spying on another’s emotional state, abusing the empathy that connects us all… Really, I ask you, am I no better than the Elder Dragon that ravaged the minds of my kin?”

“ _Canach,_ ” Rytlock growls.

“Alright, alright,” Canach mutters. “No need to go all rabid furball on me.”

He frowns as he gazes in the direction of the Scrying Pool. Roza has been feeling… badly, to put it lightly. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that there is something there that he hasn’t felt surface before. A shard of something fragile, and cracked, and at times, when Canach is trying to _sleep_ , thank you very much, so strong he nearly wishes he could block it out. He hates that he recognizes it, but all joking aside, he isn’t about to reveal it to Rytlock and Braham. Some things should be kept private.

But Roza’s recent visits to the Scrying Pool have… changed something.

It is just when he is there. There is this strange, new emotion that is not quite happiness and not quite despair. ‘Sated’ would be the word that suits it best, although Canach doesn’t like the implications. Bordered with uneasiness, he thinks, but it’s possible that’s just him. It’s hard to tell.

“Canach!” He is snapped out of his musings by Braham’s voice, loud and restless. “Are you done? What’s he thinking?”

“What?” Canach mutters.

“Can’t you, like, read his thoughts?” Braham doesn’t sound terribly certain of this theory. “Or were you talking to him, or something?”

“It doesn’t work like that, you imbecile,” Canach replies. “Wait, is that how you thought it was for us this entire time? _Really?_ ”

“Hey! I follow Wolf’s teachings, and he doesn’t say anything about sentient plants. And you know, not a lot of sylvari visit Hoelbrak.”

“Is that really your excuse? You’ve been following Roza around like a lost sapling for years!”

“Yeah, well…” Braham huffs, adjusting his arms. “I’ve been busy, you know, becoming _Wolf_ and saving him from getting murdered by angry charr. No offense, Rytlock.”

“If the two of you don’t get back on track right this instant,” Rytlock snaps, “I’m going to go in there and _ask_ the Commander what he’s feeling. And tell him that you both. Have been so diligently. Speculating.”

Braham chuckles. “He’d be pissed,” he says fondly.

“Flame, you’re weird now,” Rytlock mutters. Then, more pointedly, “Canach.”

The time for stalling is over, then. “Whatever he’s seeing in there, it seems to be helping him,” Canach says. “He’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” Braham sounds surprised. “That’s… that’s okay then. Because I thought I saw… Never mind.”

Rytlock eyes Canach for a long moment, and he can tell he isn’t buying it. But eventually he snorts and rumbles, “If that’s what you say, plant.”

It is, at least for now. If Roza can’t hold himself up, Canach thinks as he gazes down the chamber, Canach can do it for him, at least for a little while. He owes him that much.

But this can’t continue.

~*~

“I know what you’re doing,” someone says to him. Their voice sounds distant, as if Roza isn’t really hearing it, and he slants his head.

“It isn’t healthy,” they continue. “And by the Tree, Roza, I know none of us are Trahearne. But he wouldn’t want this for you.”

Trahearne. Roza closes his eyes and slumps forward, abandoning the present.

~*~

He is back here, for the third or perhaps the fourth time. The sunlight is shining warmly on his bark, and he turns his face into it with a faint smile, closing his eyes.

“Commander.” A familiar voice, welcome and pleasant. “Enjoying the springtime?”

Roza slowly tilts his head towards it. “I didn’t expect to, but yes. Maybe the gardeners in the Grove are onto something after all. Or maybe they’ve been inhaling too much pollen.”

The voice laughs. Roza opens his eyes and sees him, smiling, an expression that he doesn’t quite know how to decipher resting on his face.

“I understand where you’re coming from. There is much beauty in spring, enough that songs and stories have been written about it for centuries. But there is also beauty in winter, if one knows how to look.”

Roza hums. “A lot of our kind don’t like it,” he says. “They say it’s too cold for them. But the cold is almost all I’ve ever known. It’s practically home to me.”

Trahearne looks at him, and that strange, unknowable look in his eyes swells. “I know, Roza,” he says softly.

~*~

Roza opens his eyes. “He cared about me,” he murmurs. “I… never realized how much.”

Someone moves behind him, their reflection shifting in the pool. Roza pokes at it idly, and the image ripples.

“I wish I could go back,” he continues, “And talk to him as who I am now instead of who I was in the past. But it doesn’t work like that, I’ve tried.”

Still no response. Roza strokes Caladbolg’s leaves, wondering where he should visit next. Possibly a moment when he had some more sense in his mind.

“I was such a fool back then,” he muses out loud.

Canach says, “You still are. We care about you too, you selfish prick,” and storms out of the room.

~*~

Oh.

~*~

Roza had just wanted to… remember. Just for a little while.

~*~

Doesn’t he deserve that much?

Doesn’t he deserve happiness?

~*~

He thinks he might be forgiving Rytlock already.

Once upon a time he would have screamed. He would have crowed, raged, taunted, brought up the raw wound that is Mordremoth and refused to let go, sunken his teeth into Rytlock until he had one to match.

He really is losing his strength.

~*~

Or is he?

~*~

It is more difficult than Roza thought it would be. But eventually, one day, as he stares down the hallway to the Scrying Pool, he swallows and looks away.

“Commander. How generous of you to join us.” Canach’s voice is curt. Roza… probably owes him an apology. He isn’t the kind to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” he says simply, briefly laying a hand on the tough bark of his shoulder. He makes his way to a free seat at the table, crossing his ankles above the ground.

He _wasn’t_ the kind.

“Hey.” Braham speaks up next to him. His tone is gentle, his face is creased in concern. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” For once, the statement holds no heat. Roza helps himself to a serving of what smells like spiced dolyak meat and a wooden spoonful of soft, sad-looking vegetables. Ah, norn chefs.

Braham hesitates. Roza can hear him hold his breath, before he lets it out in a rush. “None of that bullshit, Commander,” he says. “Please. We’re… we’re all worried about you.”

Canach mutters something that sounds like he’s contesting that, but Roza is old enough now to recognize hurt when it is disguised. He glances up at Braham.

“I’ll _be_ fine, then,” he says. His lips quirk into a small smile. “Really, Braham. Now relax. You look constipated.”

Braham’s expression freezes, then starts to crease. “Y-yeah…” he mumbles. He sniffs loudly, scrunching up his nose. “Well… maybe I… maybe I am.”

“Disgusting,” Canach mutters.

“Why are you _crying_?” Roza sighs. “Well, hurry it up, or I’ll eat all your food. I’m starving.”

“It’s just…” Braham swipes the back of his hand over his eye. “You just smiled, and you don’t really do that… anymore. But you did when I told you I became Wolf, and it was so big, and I thought—I thought… I’d never get to see you like that again.”

Roza… doesn’t know what to say to that. “I see,” he decides on, awkwardly, and shoves a string bean into his mouth.

He chokes on it two seconds later when Braham squeezes him into a huge, albeit relatively gentle bear hug. “You’re an asshole. I love you,” he mumbles, his cheek smushing against Roza’s.

He feels—very warm. And fleshy. Roza is also definitely choking now, however, and Braham soon seems to realize that the hand slamming against his back is not, in fact, his attempt to return the hug. He lets go with a chuckle, watching with warm eyes as Roza spends the next minute hacking up his insides.

Canach only gazes at him. “You deserve that,” he says demurely, and sips at his glass of water.

~*~

Roza goes to him later. “I want you to hold on to this for me,” he says, and holds out Caladbolg. The urge is still itching at him, caught in his bark.

Canach eyes him warily. “Is this supposed to be your attempt at some sort of apology? The one earlier didn’t count, by the way. I’m waiting for something far more dramatic. Maybe you should cry.”

“Tough.” Roza gives him a dry smile. “But no. This is just… a safeguard. I don’t know if I can trust myself. But I trust you.”

Canach studies him for a long moment. Then he takes the weapon, slowly pulling it from Roza’s loose grasp.

“I’ll give this back to you when you get your strength back,” he says. “Because you will.”

Roza glances past him. Far in the background is the hallway leading to the Scrying Pool. His feet want to go to it. “I hope so,” he says.

~*~

“Aurene.”

She inclines her head. She is watching him carefully, her uncertainty and caution pushing at his mind. Roza hates that he’s the one that’s been causing it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “that I’ve been like this lately. And that I’ve made you feel so complicit in… what I was doing. It’s my responsibility to take care of you, not to burden you.”

She reaches out with her wing and nudges him closer. Her head dips lower, pressing against his chest. He splays a hand over her scales.

“I… could have stopped you if I wanted to, my Champion,” she says. A pause. “Roza.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t have given in to weakness.”

He feels her puff air from her nostrils. “It isn’t weakness! You were hurting, and you only did what you thought would help.”

Roza keeps shaking his head. “I did what I knew wouldn’t work,” he corrects. “I should have gone to anyone here. You, Braham, Rytlock. But I didn’t—I shrunk into myself, and I turned you all away. I learned some time ago that that isn’t the right thing to do.”

She closes her eyes. “I just wanted you to feel better.”

“I know.” He strokes the base of her horn. “I know, princess. When I was as new an adult as you are now, I wouldn’t have known any better. But the world has taught me things. I should be sharing those things with you, not revisiting old wounds and revelling in my stagnancy. From now on, we grow.”

She headbutts him gently. “You… haven’t called me that in a long time,” she says eventually.

Roza smiles. “I haven’t seen you as who you are in a long time,” he admits.

She opens her eyes. “Nor I you, Roza. And I think that is something to learn from.”

~*~

One more person.

“It’s good to see that you’re up to snuff again.” Rytlock nods at him. “Next time you see Bangar, he won’t have the opportunity to get his cheating shot in.”

Roza can’t help but smile. “Bangar… Ruining-the-laws-of-parley, is it?”

“I should maul you, just for that.” Rytlock’s voice is guttural, as always. Roza realizes now that he finds it oddly comforting. “Although I think you may have ruined them first when you called him an idiot to his face.”

Roza snorts. “He _is_ an idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re always the smartest person in the room.” Rytlock huffs out what could be a chuckle, or what could be a long-suffering snort. Probably both.

Roza dips his head in a nod. As he makes to leave, Rytlock calls out, “Hey! Commander Hotshot.”

“ _That_ had better not have been a pun,” Roza mutters to himself as he turns around.

“I, uh, noticed you let Canach hold on to Caladbolg.” Rytlock sounds somewhat stiff, maybe even awkward. “If you want, you can test out Sohothin for a bit. Not to put it in that creepy pool, but just to hold a weapon for a little while. I know it’s easy to get restless when there’s nothing to fight. Too much time with your own thoughts.”

“Oh.” Roza blinks in surprise. “I… Thank you, Rytlock. I know you wouldn’t offer that to just anyone.”

“Ugh, burn me. Look.” Rytlock pulls at his ears. Yes, definitely awkward. “I feel bad for slashing you up, okay? And Canach’s right; your guard is flaming terrible. Get up in there close enough and you’ll get hacked to pieces. So I want you to train with it for a little bit, get used to how it feels to have an _actual_ weapon in your hands. And Sohothin’s good for that. Got me through a lot.”

He reaches to his belt and pulls the blade out, offering it hilt first.

“I’m astounded how you can both spill your feelings like a sapling and insult me in the space of a couple of sentences,” Roza says.

Rytlock growls. “Don’t make me take it back, twig.”

Roza laughs. “Thank you, Rytlock, truly. I’m honoured. And I promise I’ll take good care of it,” he says sincerely. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches up and plucks a violet leaf off his head.

“Here you go,” he says, extending his hand.

Rytlock stares at him. Sohothin, still held out patiently, drops by about an inch.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “That’s an even exchange. Thanks, Commander.”

Roza smiles. “You’re welcome, Rytlock.”

He takes the sword.

~*~

He’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked it please let me know! <3 thank you
> 
> [song for this one ;;u;](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxUGaiK3LVo)


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